


the brown stains of 6-12

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 07:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20792645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “no, i want to know you, past the camera.” voice sounds like the colour red. schlatt’s scraping for any association to manage not going off the fucking rails. voice sounds—"kill me," pants schlatt, the ropes as raw as his wrist. "just fucking kill me, wil, you cowardly cunt."





	the brown stains of 6-12

**Author's Note:**

> title from tyler's cherry bomb

schlatt is excited for the convention.

(a sure motherfucking understatement.)

feels like a little kid, he’s over the moon with this trip  — a year ago, working a shitty part - time job, staying up ‘til the witching hour to finish streams? he wouldn’t have ever foresaw this fortune, this turn of luck, this roll of the dice that got him drowning in schlattcoin; and support. jesus. he’s nonchalant, even sardonic on stream crackin’ jokes that never get off the ground and janky oneliners to kick(start) an online revolution, but he can’t count how many times he’s seen fanart and smiled. read dms of how much he’d helped fans through their dark days, devoted comments and derisive agreements.

despite what his online persona projects, schlatt cares more than he wants to. his heart’s a midas - thing, turning anything it touches to gold, cares more than he can humanly deal with, (oh, the horror!) he can’t believe that people actually gave more than two fucks about him, nurtured that mischievous instinct to use for good. he could go on, but he’s never been one for fuckin’ philosophy. he’s a damn computer science student. the closest he’s been to a serious discussion was eating some girl out at a frat party who wouldn’t shut up about kant — _ wait. _

anyway, the convention. the smplive squad have been freaking the fuck out about being invited for a panel to discuss their impact on _the contemporary minecraft scene_, schlatt included,

_ (“impact on the contemporary minecraft scene?” schlatt queried into the mic, with a shit - eating smile. “what am i, notch?” _

_ “grum,” answered junky over the discord call, and schlatt blocked him for two minutes.) _

arranged just neatly after the end of smplive. time flies by like a trident. it seems like only yesterday schlatt was just setting up his twitch, anxious in nervous anticipation. there’s only so many words for describing schlatt being a puberty - ridden fuck years back who had no hopes but in the slim light at the end of the tunnel, hedoesn’tliketothinkaboutthat. things are better now. he’s got a whole world of people willing to get behind his eccentric shenanigans. feels weird calling them fans, because the title’s demoralizing, dehumanizing  — they were all individuals, five hundred thousand of them who thought supporting one schlatt was a good idea.

it burdens schlatt, sometimes, that he’s semi - famous. carson says he’s experiencing first world problems, but it hasn’t sunk in yet to schlatt that his streams aren’t a cozy gathering of a hundred, but much rather of a hundred thousand. he hasn’t yet hit the subscriber count to frame him as a megalomaniac, but he fears losing the humanity of an ordinary person. (he fears he’s no longer considered deserving of humanity.) 

he thinks about this on the plane to london. connor, sitting next to him in economy, notes how distant schlatt is when he’s not busy disrupting the cosmic order of minecraftian events. he sinks into the seat and wishes he could envelop himself in the blue skies he drifts past.

home is other people.

cooper takes schlatt’s luggage from the belt for him without asking, aloof creature. not the most direct, but they joke around. out of the corner of his eye, schlatt spies cooper attach himself to traves  —  sees him open up, knows that’s love, but schlatt can’t be fucked to ask about it. ain’t his business, put most simply. he nods at cooper’s shitty jokes and calls cooper out in his shitty behaviour, and everything’s kind of normal. smplive has never fit the definition of normal.

traves isn’t the i’m baby meme, but he’s the i’m baby meme. he’s genuinely the sweetest person in real life that it’s almost impossible to keep up that charismatic camaraderie teetering on masochistic that schlatt is characteristically known for  —  notices that schlatt’s initially tense, doesn’t overstep boundary like the other fuckers. in another parallel universe, they’re closer friends. traves is a keeper who both stays cool and blows his cover.

daniel is kind and slender, and his touch is warm, kind of like a furnace, (but, still, schlatt shrugs away from it, unsure how to properly comprehend that individuals care about him. there that word is again. what is he, an english major with an unplanned lecturer?) he tousles schlatt’s hair, says he’s got a baby face. schlatt threatens to throttle him, fully knowing he’s never going to follow up on that faux promise. rhianna, accompanying him, ensures that.

there’s others, but those are all the caricatures that schlatt can easily attach himself to so he doesn’t lose himself. (but, where’s wilbur?) once the initial holy shit i’m here thrill melts away, he gets back to his usual throne cracking swagger; throws some insults, catches some punches. schlatt is not a guy who aggression easily seduces. he’s a businessman, he’s a casanova, he’s a leader with thick skin and a deeper voice. schlatt’s a wild card.

he’s calm.

he’s loose. 

he goes out to watch the sun rise over their airbnb the morning hours before he has to leave for insomnia and that’s the last thing he remembers before he hits the ground —

he wakes.

schlatt’s heart, lungs, throat feel like they’re bleeding, (begging for air, asphyxiated just enough to keep him conscious, avoiding his ability to fucking breathe.) he can’t see anything. sensory deprivation mutilates him; his limbs are gagged, something’s shoved in his mouth, a strip of what feels like barbed wire barriers him from sight. oxygen tastes all too much like the residue of blood on his mouth, in his mouth. schlatt is perpetually unable to capture the concept of memory, and for that true panic sets in  — his recollection’s slipping away, he’s slipping away, here.

(who’s going to find his body?)

his body, _his body,_ his body, a permafreeze hits bare skin. he’s been stripped down, tied down, like cattle. a scream catches in his throat. pure pitch - dark swallows his vision, licks at his sense of reality like flames would a flesh - carcass, reduced to that hollow meat. he scrapes for anything that could help him identify the lynch - like hell he’s trapped in. arousal of pain hits. 

the sound of blood sloshing in his ears increases to a steady, slow thud, and his breathing becomes as loud as an air raid siren. heavy inhales, desperately sucking in air like a baby at a nipple. 

“you’re hyperventilating, poor thing.” the fabric’s ripped from his lips, bruised and red. schlatt doesn’t bother to scream, as he keeps breathing. only thing that’s keeping him sane in this horrific situation, and he recovers enough of a sense to feel something of headwear being placed over his hair. it’s a heavy weight, but not enough that it adds to the overstimulating agony.

horns, like his persona — ?

was this planned?

“who are you? do you want  — my channel? i'll - i'll promote,” spluttering, sweating, a warmth running down his thighs. something hard pressing against his stomach, dry and moist all at the same time. “i’ll get you anything, i have people waiting for me, please, just fuckin’ — ”

“no, i want to know you, past the camera.” voice sounds like the colour red. schlatt’s scraping for any association to manage not going off the fucking rails. voice sounds —

"kill me," pants schlatt, the ropes as raw as his wrist. "just fucking kill me, wil, you cowardly cunt."

“with all those people at the airport? we didn’t get the time we deserved together.” a sensation that feels like a mic presses at the boy's lips, a gore - fucked parallel in both voice and virago. there’s the beep of a webcam, timed. he doesn’t think this one is going on twitch. "i think i'm in love, chat."

schlatt’s so overwhelmed. he shakes his head and the microphone (he’s coping as imagining it as a microphone, now, sliding under the roof of his mouth, the metal slit leaking — ) presses further. hears wilbur click his tongue approvingly.  the boy under him opens up, submits whole, forgets who he is in favour of the persona.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really ship this aside from something else i’ve posted [;)], but spite made me want to dabble
> 
> (send me fic rqs over on newmilo on tumblr)


End file.
